


Returning to Ouroboros

by theprydonian_archivist



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Character Study, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-05
Updated: 2009-01-05
Packaged: 2018-07-15 01:10:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7199348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theprydonian_archivist/pseuds/theprydonian_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a unity that exists before all else, one present from the beginning which ties with such a force that it cannot be extinguished. One way or another, they will return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Returning to Ouroboros

**Author's Note:**

> Allusions to Obscure Canon, if such a thing may exist: bits I learned from sites mostly Doctor Who Wiki.
> 
> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Prydonian](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Prydonian). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [The Prydonian collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/theprydonian/profile).

In the howling darkness by an empty cavern on a rocky cliff, a child with dusty knees wipes the tears from his eyes with the sleeve of his robe. It is large on him, too large, but it is the one they have given him to wear. He shivers, for it is too thin of a material to block out the cold. He is too thin, too small, too frail. The frail Snail, they call him – and the mean child dunks their heads under the water. How they flailed, then. How they shivered. All the little children, so scared. It’s hazy now, like the memory is wary of itself. 

The wind howls with the moans and pain of a boy on the brink of death. The child cannot recognize the voice. He’s just seen all of time and space. Everything is so confusing. It is all too much. He’s not scared . . .

He isn’t. He can’t remember his mother’s face, but he hums a song quietly to himself, one she always sang to him. 

He remembers what it is like to feel real fear. Just a year ago, he begged the gods for . . .

The wind is picking up now. Soon, it will carry him over the edge. No matter what, he will keep running. What he saw in the heart of Time cannot be erased, or forgiven, or forgotten. It’s catching up to him now. He can hear it in the wind. He inclines his head toward the direction from which he ran. If he squints, he can see the firelight. They are not looking for him. No one is looking for him. The silly child. The frail child. Snail. 

In a moment of strange anger and rage, he curls his upper lip at the gathering below. He is nothing of the sort. He will prove it to them. 

He turns his back and his steps take him halfway up the mountain. He hasn’t noticed how close he is to home, though it is not his home any longer. It never was his home, was it? The swirling, ancient winds have planted a tiny seed of doubt within him, tiny enough to seem so important. There is something (or someone) he has forgotten. 

He stops at the entrance to the cave. K’anpo Rimpoche is waiting for him. It is a funny name, the child thinks. It is a stuffy name. It’s not really his name. He is the Hermit, everyone knows. He is the child’s Hermit. Years ago, it was the fashion for every House to have one. Now, he seems to be the only one left. One day, the Time Lord will leave. One day, the child will join him. 

“I thought you might have run.” The Hermit informs him, extending his hand to grasp the child’s smaller one.

“Why?” the child asks. It is his favorite question.

The Hermit purses his lips. “You’ve run to me before, little one. Once one runs, it is hard to stop.”

“Why?” he asks again. 

“Momentum, I suppose.” His Hermit smiles and pats his head. “You may stay here until they come for you. I’ve some food and drink I am willing to share, if you’ve the stomach for it.”

The child shakes his head and stares into the fire. 

“Very well. I shall leave you to yourself.” The Hermit has always known what is best for the child. The child knows this. Even though he wants to know more, about the Schism, about the Academy, about being a Time Lord, he remains silent. They will come for him, take him to a cold and lonely room and place in him in cold and sterile classrooms. He will be told what to learn. He will be told what to become. His destiny is not waiting for him, it is being made for him. They make it for him. Perhaps they have made him run. Perhaps, oh, perhaps.

These thoughts are too large for a child so young. His black robe pools around him and he shivers despite the heat. He wants his mother. He wants the warm cradle of her arms, the smooth rocking motion she used to calm him. He wants to hear her songs again. He loved her very much. Why did she have to leave? Why did Father make him come here? Every child of Gallifrey must attend. Not every, the child knew, but most. Some children did not even make it to the school’s required age. 

The wind howls again, like a dying child, and the walls of the wave begin to shiver. The child’s eyes are wide. The fire begins to curl. It rises, suspending itself in the air, a perfect circle, a perfect swirl, and it turns. It churns. It burns. In its center are a thousand suns; it is the light of the universe, the whisper and the hum of each and every atom. The music of the spheres. The child watches and listens. 

You may abandon the Schism, it shows him, but She will not abandon you. It will follow him everywhere. This is when the child first knows where the line is drawn: there is good and there is evil. He lies . . . 

The child screams in the darkness.

. . . on the side of good. 

As soon as his decision is made, a shadow falls across the fire. It drops from the air and is a normal flame again. The child looks up across the fire and across the line. The figure is nothing more than a dark shadow, a reflection of himself in a black mirror. He does not need to see the face to know that it is expressionless, yet the child can feel the turmoil underneath. 

“Did you run, too?” the child asks in a small voice.

His shadow in the entrance makes a small motion that is indifferent. Like him, the shadow is reluctant to speak of the event. 

In clipped footfalls, the Hermit joins them. “What are you?” he curtly asks the shadow-child. 

“It’s all right, Hermit.” The small child stands. “He’s a friend.” 

“He is nothing of the sort.” The Hermit sounds so different. The child crosses his arms around his body, feeling as though it were him that was being attacked by the Time Lord’s words. The child asks him to stop, to let the other boy in, but he’s too scared to force any authority into his voice. He’s scared and alone and his friend has come for him. If he could just cross the way . . . What could they do?

“Koschei?” The child calls out, but the shadow has vanished. It is nothing more than a black robe floating in the wind. It is the child’s robe, the boy realizes. That is why he is so cold. It is why he is shivering. Somehow, it had got loose of his body. He crosses the way in nothing but a thin undergarment, and grasps the bundle of cloth. 

The wind howls fiercely. 

“The boy you speak of,” The Hermit remains in front of the fire, “This is Koschei of the House of Oakdown?”

The child nods. 

In the darkness of the cave, the young child sees one eye glint with the firelight. The Hermit contemplates. 

He is silent as he waits for the words of wisdom. He watches the fire in the ground, and the fire around the secluded Time Lord. For the first time since the Initiation, the child hears his heart beat. (One? Just one? Why so lonely?) Of its own accord, his robe flutters around him, wrapping around him like a blanket. 

“I suggest then,” The Hermits speaks, “You wait out the storm here.” 

The child is just about to ask which storm the Hermit is speaking of, but a crack of thunder makes him jump. The rain begins to pour down from the sky. 

“The gods are watching,” the Hermit says. 

The child retreats quickly into the interior of the cave. “Watching who?”

The Hermit looks down at his with a warm smile, touching his cheek, then his robe. “It does not matter.”

~

There is a circle made around a child not far from the mountainside, turns his back on the pompous gathering. He walks away from them with at a calm pace, almost strolling. It is difficult for a child of his young age to achieve an air of resignation and superiority while he strolls, but this child manages it quite well. The Time Lords stare at his retreating back, whispering caution. The other initiates tremble before the swirling Schism. It is of no consequence. The child is left to his own.

He walks in the opposite direction of the mountain. There is nothing up there he has not already seen, nothing he is not already seeing. The winds carry him along to the forest. It is a long walk, to anyone who pays attention, but his mind is on other things. There are plenty of other things to keep him occupied, but he thinks of none of them. He has no need for them yet. Instead, he counts his footsteps by fours and waits until he reaches his destination. Where he is going, only he knows, not that there is anyone who cares to watch. They saw him leave. That was enough. 

The deeper the child goes, the darker the trees become, first silver then grey, now black as his robe. When he walks, not one twig snaps. There is silence all around. The forest grows deeper and the wind grows colder. The sound of a brook running over rocks reaches his ears, but it is not the river. This brook is for laundry and broth. It is for bathing and cleaning meat. It is a brook one makes a life out of. He does not smile when he reaches the hut. He barely blinks at the bones surrounding it. He does not even knock: The door is already open. 

The interior of the hut is as dark as the outside, but the child can see. He can see what hangs from the ceiling and what gurgles in jars. He can see dried herbs on the counter, freshly ground in a mortar and pestle, and a silver broomstick by the hearth. There is a cold fire burning inside. The flame is blue and green. It reminds the child of his own eyes. 

He sees, too, the hunchbacked figure slumped over a round wooden table. A small feathered creature lies gutted, with its innards moved to one side. The old crone runs a finger through the purple blood, lifting an intestine and a kidney. “So you are here,” she croaks in a voice that sounds like ice cracking. 

The child nods, knowing the hag can see him. 

“Did you like what you saw?” She asks, still not turning to look at her visitor. 

“Yes.” The child whispers emphatically. He runs his hands along the dusty counter and knows immediately what each implement is for. Outside, the winds howls like a dying child, like a gutted child waited to be stewed or roasted.

“Hmph. Made to like it.” She points a gnarled, crooked finger at him, and he feels the chill of winter in her accusation, “You ran, you know.”

He feels the constricting hold of ice around his throat as he recalls running up the hill of the mountainside and tears streaming down his face. “I did no so thing!” He shuts his eyes and remembers standing calmly in front of her glorious power. 

She looks up at him from her old, wrinkly eyes. “Bah,” she squawks. “Just like him.”

“Who?” There’s a fog inside his head and he can’t remember which child he is supposed to be. Is he the white one or the black one?

“Koschei.”

The black one, he decides, and shakes his head. “Daft old woman. I am him.”

She looks at him again, scrutinizing him with a careful eye. “Bah. Were, more like. Nothin’ but an instrument now. A young skin pulled tight over a drum. Ba bum. Ba bum.” She scratches a nail down his cheek, so sharp it draws blood. She sucks the liquid into her mouth. 

“Too spoiled for the soup?” The child sneers.

The wind howls against the hut.

“Never make a deal with Death, boy. I don’t care if you are Koschei, she is older and cruel. Psaw!” Her ancient lungs wheeze. “Time, my child, Time is nothing if but humourous. She will play you like a doll if you are not in control. But no one masters time. There is no Master of Time, not even Rassilon himself. Bah! There was a daft fool. Only Time wields the sharp handblade.” 

Her hand falls in a swift chopping motion, bisecting the feathered carcass. The hearts inside the child’s chest jump at different rhythms. 

“What else has it told you?” The child watches the blood ooze and fill the cracks of the dry wood.

“There is a line. Here,” she traces the severed critter. “One white, one black.”

“Are both me?” For a split second, the child is aware of the change that has occurred within him when he stared into the Untempered Schism: a white and frightened rabbit, a black and cold horse.

She raises her head. “It is not for you to know. It is for you to learn.”

“Then why do you look?” The horse rides on and his hooves reverberate in fours. 

“To watch you. I am your appointed servant, child of the oak tree. A thankless task, no doubt.”

The hooves become louder. “I need no one.”

“Really? Do you stand by that statement?” She catches his eyes, and the scratch on his cheek begins to burn. She stares at him, goes deeper into him, grasping him by the eyes and tumbling inside. With his hands, she throws the carcass into the flames and makes him watch. It erupts into the image of a small, half-naked child. He stands at the entrance of the hearth, bordering the dark and the light. He is calling someone. “The snailworm,” she snarls, meaning the child.

“I can think of worse names for you, old hag!” The child snaps at her. 

“Bah!” She snuffs. “He’ll have a name, soon."

“I know it.” The child lifts his chin, proud of his secret knowledge. 

“I have no doubt.” 

The child stares at the image in the fire, and the old woman – Time Lord or hidden Pythia, no one truly knows – tells him, “In the stories, the Skeleton Rider is separated from his heart.”

“I am too old for stories.” The child waves her away, captivated by the cold, warped image the flames make within the hearth. He knows the boy, yes. They have walked together, staring at the clouds. They have sat together, at the edge of Lethe’s banks. Sometimes, they have spoken to each other. 

“He needs me,” the child announces. 

The hag grumbles something different, causing the child to turn his eyes away. “What did you say?” he snarls, his slim fingers curling around a rusted knife. 

“You should so dare. You never should have looked! It should not have been you!” She grabs for him like a mother becoming separated from her son, “My child! My Koschei! What they did to you!” 

“Shut up!” He brings the blade down through her shoulder, satisfied with the squelching sound   
that emanates as he twists. “I am nothing of yours, Baba Yaga!”

“Ah, but everything of his, no doubt. No doubt.” She tuts to herself, woundless as Koschei bleeds from his own shoulder. “You shall twist yourself so hard, in the end you die by your own hand. But I tell you nothing you don’t already know. Wise child. Fool child.” She rises from the table and plucks a dried meat from her ceiling. She waddles over to the stove and drops it into the stewing broth. 

“Are you staying for supper?”

“No, mother.” Koschei whispers, holding his shoulder as the beginnings of a storm erupt over the sky. 

“Gods are watching you.” 

“Which one?” He stares out the open door as the three Riders circle around. Night is gaining on Day. White one, black one.

“Does it matter?”

It really doesn’t, Koschei shrugs. Not yet.

~ _Eight years later_ ~

The Hermit stares at Koschei for a long time, silent. Theta feels nervous. More than nervous, he feels scared. He feels as though he is being judged through the thin, dark slip of his friend. The Hermit has always been so positive before, but the way he is staring at Koschei . . .

Theta swallows his fears and steps forward, tugging Koschei into the cavern by his sleeve. “Koschei, this is the Hermit. Um, K’anpo . . . something or other. It doesn’t matter. It’s a silly name. He’s the Hermit. Hermit, this is Koschei.” 

“Of Oakdown, yes. ” 

Koschei smiles. “Svarog.”

“I am but a hermit.” The Time Lords takes the child’s hand in his. “A humble servant of the House of Lungbarrow.” 

“And I am but a youth,” Koschei makes his grip firm, “of the Prydonian Academy. This visit must be pleasure, for I would hate to think of suffering the consequences of escaping the Citadel to hear a silly story.”

“Koschei! They’re not silly!” Theta hisses, but the Hermit appears amused.

“I trust I will please you fully, night rider.”

“Then begin, flame-eyed teller.” 

The Hermit’s robe swirls around his feet as he turns for the fire pit. He speaks to Koschei with his back turned, “You converse knowledgeably for a child of your age.”

Koschei laughs, throwing back his dark head. “You amuse me, Hermit. Go on, tell your story.”   
For the first time, Theta is acknowledged by his friend. Koschei beckons with a sharp turn of his wrist. “ Sit, Theta,” he says, and Theta obeys. 

Theta catches the wary look in the Hermit’s eye. It is not directed to Koschei. It is for him. In his mind’s eye, a flower wilts as the hail cuts through its wiry stalk. Theta tilts his head, nearly understanding, but the Hermit is already throwing sand on the fire. The flames explode in a puff of orange and white and the tale begins. 

(In the darkness, Theta finds Koschei’s hand. His friend says nothing as their fingers twist around each other. Behind them, they cast only one shadow.)

 

..........Theta knows nothing but darkness. To his left, the wind howls. To his right, the wind screams. In front of him there is a pool of water. Behind him, rustling branches speak of suicide. Twigs snap. Leaves rustle. Theta shivers. He should’ve worn overclothes. 

‘What? Not going to say _It was a dark and stormy night_?’ The voice on the wind belongs to Koschei. Theta gasps and suddenly knows Koschei has always been just at his hip. He’s not so scared any longer. ‘Is this supposed to frighten me, old man?’

_Silence_ , the trees rustle. Theta, too, bids Koschei to listen and not speak.

“It’s silly,” Koschei whispers over Theta’s hair. The young boy leans in to the solid frame of his friend, too cold to care about the Hermit’s disapproval. 

“But I like it,” Theta says. Koschei does not speak, but his arm comes around Theta’s shoulders. His heart jumps to his throat and he reminds himself, _friend_. Koschei squeezes tighter.

The Hermit’s story is one of Theta’s favorites. He recognizes the tale as the woman runs toward them, shrieking to the gods above. “Vampir!” she shouts as she runs with her babe clutched to her chest. The water splashes around her legs as she cuts through the shallow pool. The boneless creature rolls through the darkness. Theta shudders at the grotesque sight: an inflated skin, lumps of blood and dirt sticking to its decaying exterior. Its hog’s head lolls almost lifeless to one side. It’s snarling. It’s howling. It’s coming after the babe. 

The hero will come, Theta knows. He always does, and such a dashing hero he is! 

The woman is in front of them now, Theta can see. He holds his breath as she passes by them. . . She does not get far. Something pulls her back and she screams. She drops her child. 

Theta’s eyes widen as he sees Koschei’s fist curled around the hem of her skirt. (He feels the Hermit across from them cry out with surprise.)

The vampire waddles closer, shuddering until he is a starved, stray dog. 

“Koschei,” Theta’s voice rattles, “This isn’t how the story goes.”

“It’s how my story goes,” he murmurs, having lifted the wailing child from the ground. The mother has disappeared back into the story’s frame. The dog whimpers at Koschei’s feet. There is no use in running, Theta knows, but he still is scared. He’s ignored that look in Koschei’s eyes for years, always putting it off as something else. There is no mistaking it here. There is nothing else to mistake it for. And his voice! The cold malice in his voice is worse than any night terror Theta has ever experienced. 

Why won’t the Hermit help him?

“Aren’t you curious, Thete? Aren’t you just?” He lowers the child to the dogs nose. “Want it?”  
The dog puts on Koschei’s smile. Its jaws open impossibly wide, revealing rows upon rows of sharp and rotting teeth. 

‘Just a story,’ Theta whispers to himself. ‘It’s a just a story.’ Yet, as the child screams, Theta already has his hands on Koschei, is already pulling him and the child away. He trips over his own feet, and they fall into the water. 

“What did you do that for?” Koschei screams. Theta flinches. “It’s just a stupid story, Theta! Don’t be such a baby!”

“You were going to hurt him!” Theta fires back.

When Koschei pulls Theta’s face to him, the boy sees the wicked glint of the dog’s eyes. “I just want to feel it, what they won’t let us feel. Calculations, my dear, are cold and numb. They have their place, it is true, but the emotional satisfaction of sating a need is its outlier.”

“Koschei.” _What big eyes you have. What big teeth you have._ Theta’s fear wraps around the heart in his throat. Koschei’s cold fingers settle there, too, tracing the pulse. Where is the Hermit? “What are you doing?”

“Retrieving something that was stolen from me.”

“But I took nothing.” He whispers around the firm hold. 

But Koschei has committed the same folly Theta always has: He has lost himself in the story. Eyes black, bones melting, Koschei’s ice-cold lips capture Theta’s trembling mouth. His teeth begin to slide into his swelling lips. 

It’s only a story, Theta thinks. You can’t die in stories, can you? It’s not like it is real. It is the story, and now Theta is a part of that story, so he lets it happen. He lets the story melt his own bones, make the last of the life sigh from his soul, he leans into the story’s verison of his best friend and feels himself pouring into him. ..........

 

He coughs up blood as he gasps awake. The Hermit is holding him, looking pale and sweated. Theta continues to tremble and to bleed. His eyes dart left and right, searching for his friend. 

“He’s gone.” The Hermit holds him tighter. “Don’t think of him, my child. Don’t think.”

“He – What did he do?” Theta blinks in the light. 

The Hermit is so pale. “That is not for you to know.”

~

Theta sleeps alone that night, despite the treacherous nightmares that plague him. He is unwillingly to cross over to the bed beside him. The boy watching him through the night is the source of his anxiety.

They don’t speak for a whole lunar cycle.

~

In the middle of the night, Koschei pulls the blanket away from Theta’s body. The other boy is not asleep, but he pretends to be offended. Koschei does not care. He throws a coat over Theta’s body and leaves. Theta is meant to follow.

He knows he shouldn’t. His mouth still aches when he think of that night – but other things ache, as well, and though he isn’t sure if it broke his heart or set it on fire, he isn’t quite sure if those weren’t the same thing.

He follows. He would follow Koschei to the end of the universe, to the end of time, if that’s where he wanted to go. Koschei was the only one, besides the Hermit, who understood. 

“Where are we going?” Theta whispers in the hall. Koschei does not answer him. 

“We’ll be caught for sure!” Koschei might not have been reprimanded, the gifted son, but Theta would surely feel the blow. 

Koschei stops and waits for Theta to catch up. “The guards!” Theta reminds him. “They’re posted at every door.”

Koschei smiles and pushes Theta forward. Theta walks on. 

They pass the guards who do not blink at them. They leave the Citadel without so much as a “Hey, you there!” Theta knows Koschei has done something. He should feel upset, he should be back in bed, but he is excited. He feels it in his veins, the familiar exhilaration of an adventure. It’s been so long since their last one. Koschei moves silently in front of him, a backwards shadow. Theta instinctively knows that he is not to speak until they reach their destination. 

Koschei leads him deep into the forest, so deep it is black. Theta has never been here before. He hasn’t strayed far from the mountainside, save for the fields and the river bank. He wonders how Koschei knows this place. 

_Or maybe he doesn’t, really, and he’s coming out here to kill you in secret._

Koschei laughs. Theta feels caught for having thought it. His friend pulls in forward and drapes his arms around him. “I would never. You!” He smiles and his hands, his warm hands, curl around Theta’s jaw. “For as long as I live, Theta, I will never harm you. You must believe me.”

He leans in and Theta’s heart jumps to his throat. He tries to smile, but he fears, instinctively, what is coming. Instead, he is swept off of his feet. 

Quite literally. Theta yelps as an armored man pulls him off the ground and drops him on his horse. He feels like screaming, but he hears Koschei laugh, so it must be all right. He loves the sound of Koschei’s laughter. A thought stabs his chest as he is pulled through the trees: He loves everything about Koschei. Theta struggles to find his balance, but the rider has a firm hold on him. He doesn’t know where he’s going, but he knows he is being taken somewhere. 

“Don’t worry!” Koschei waves at him from his own horse. Theta has to squint to see him, they are so dark. “I’ll meet you up ahead.” 

A streak of red flies past him as another horsemen charges through the forest. He illuminates the space enough for Theta to see that he is on a white horse, fully armoured like in the stories the Hermit has told him. He thinks of knights, and lords and ladies, and dragons. He’s excited again, knowing that it is safe. “Are we going to slay a dragon?” He asks the White Rider, hopefully. 

He does not speak, but carries him through the maze of black and crooked trees. Theta feels the wind in his hair and listens to the brook and horse’s hooves, and he waits. 

The horsemen stop outside a rudimentary cabin. There are roots growing out from underneath it. Roots, or legs, Theta thinks, because roots don’t have claws. He turns back to thank his chaperone, but the men are gone. Koschei beckons from the doorway. 

“Is this your home?” Theta asks innocently. 

“Bah!” An old woman answers him instead, haggard and hunched. “He is never welcome here, but always is.”

Theta is instantly scared of her. 

Koschei grasps his hand and pulls him over to a small round table. “It’s all right. She’s just old.”

“Younger than you, Death Rider.” The woman grumbles from the kitchen. 

“And a bit mad.” Koschei winks. Theta wonders what has him in such a cheery mood. It was the middle of the night. Why would he come here?

“Here. Your heart’s getting cold.” She sets a bowl of tea in front of Theta. There are leaves floating in it. “Drink up.” 

Koschei smiles at him in a way Theta hasn’t seen in a long time. Not since they were children. He imagines an apology is attached to it. He accepts it by downing the warm beverage. It smells nice, but tastes like feet. Nonchalantly, Koschei takes the bowl and sips from the same part of the rim Theta had. As the liquid drips from Koschei’s mouth, Theta knows the tea would taste sweet if he were to take it from there. 

Koschei’s tongue retrieves it instead, and Theta’s attention is pulled back to the old woman. 

“Fetch the bag,” she tells his friend. He disappears behind a curtain. 

The old woman sits down across from Theta. He can see the Hermit’s wisdom in her eyes, but there is none of his warmth. Even the fire in her hearth gives off coolness, not heat. Her wizened face is not cruel, however. It is just wary. 

“I’ve known Koschei as long as I can remember,” he states. 

The woman grumbles. 

“He’s my best friend.”

The woman scratches her chin.

“We’ve got some classes together, back at the Academy. He’s always telling me I could be better, but –” The woman’s hand circles Theta’s wrist just as Koschei walks into the room. 

“Leave him alone, woman.” 

“Just offering to read him.” She smiles in a helpful way, and Theta believes her. 

“It’s all right,” Theta says. He freely lays his palm down on the table and she tuts for his other hand. He blushes and extends the proper hand. He feels Koschei’s gaze on him, but says nothing. 

“Heh.” She wheezes, tracing a particular line across his palm. She raps on the table and Koschei lays his own palm next to Theta’s. 

“Heh,” she repeats. “Knew I recognized you.” 

Koschei’s hand disappears off of the table and is replaced by a small velvet bag. “Just give them to him. And get yourself glasses before you go blind."

The woman nods and Koschei sits down next to Theta. He moves his seat so that they are nearly touching. Theta’s palm itches, but he knows to keep it on the table. Her bony hand delves inside the bag and retrieves an emerald, heart-shaped pendant. She places it in the center of his palm and dives into the bag once more. A golden chain comes out in her grasp and she ties it around his hand. The pendant is secured to him, and it is cold. 

She drops a preserved blue eyeball next to his hand, then a dried chicken claw. A mirror shard comes out next, followed by a flower’s thorn. They are not particularly familiar items, but Theta knows of them. What he knows better is the feel of Koschei’s hand over his own. He receives that last. The pendant now, is warm. 

“They’re. . . charms,” Koschei explains.”For all those stupid nightmares. Ghosts, and spooks, and Toclafane. They won’t hurt you with these.”

When Koschei’s hand squeezes, it occurs to him suddenly that these charms are to protect him from Koschei. 

“Thank you,” Theta tells her, speaking to Koschei. He doesn’t have to be afraid anymore. 

“Bah!” The old woman barks. He likes her, Theta decides. 

He takes back his hand and buries the amulet in his coat pocket. “It’s been a fascinating visit, um,” he stumbles, realizing he does not know the old woman’s name. He wants to call her grandmother, for some strange reason. 

“Baba Yaga,” Koschei supplies, collecting the rest of the items into the bag. “Thank you, you old hag.” He says it affectionately, though, Theta can hear. 

The crone coughs some more buts waves them off. She pats Koschei on the head, and he pretends to hate it. Theta tells her thanks once more as he passes by. 

“I do nothing for you, soul eater.” Her hands catch in his hair. “I do only for him. But what is the difference when you cast only one shadow?”

He doesn’t understand what she means, but Koschei calls him from outside, and Theta goes to him. They ride back home on a red horse, and arrive just as the suns are rising.

~

When they are safely in the Citadel, Koschei pulls the charm and chain from Theta’s overcoat. “May I?” He asks.

Theta stares as he threads the chain through the small loop, and he makes a small calculation to assure himself that Koschei can’t kill him with it. Theta nods slowly, giving himself time to change his mind. 

Koschei’s hands are warm as his fingers brush against Theta’s neck, and the chain is light. He looks down at the pendant resting in the middle of his chest, and feels . . . happy. He turns to his friend with a large smile and kisses his cheek. “Thank you.” 

Koschei gradually smiles back, and Theta can’t help but think how good the warmth looks on him.

~ _Eight days later_ ~

Another nightmare drives him to seek out his friend. Koschei teases him about being such a baby, but allows him in. They do not speak until Theta is just drifting off.

“I said once,” Koschei murmurs into the nape of Theta’s neck, “that I didn’t need anyone, and I don’t. That's why I don't understand.”

Theta shifts under the blanket, half-asleep. "Don't understand what?"

"Why you're you, when you are clearly me."

Theta frowns in the dark. “I’m not you, Koschei.” 

Koschei laughs at this, and his arms circle Theta’s waist. “No,” he presses a small kiss to the hollow of Theta’s throat. “You’re not. So am I you?” 

Theta shivers, suddenly cold, and recognizes the fear that began with a similiar kiss. "Madness," he whispers, gripping the pendant around his neck. 

Koschei presses another kiss to Theta's neck, one that is quickly followed by another. Theta shuts his eyes. The lips on his throat are warm and wet. This is not a story. Koschei tugs him closer, shifting Theta onto his back. He is sweating, Theta realizes. No, he is simmering. A thousand fires are being lit just underneath his skin, and every kiss Koschei gives him burns. Theta's heart jumps to his throat and Koschei grazes his teeth over his flesh. 

Theta holds his breath. No blood escapes. This is not a story. Theta blinks. He turns his head and looks at Koschei. His eyes are as blue as they've always been, just darker. His teeth aren't sharp, either. Theta parts his lips with a finger, just to be sure. Suddenly, he feels like a fool. He grins and laughs at himself. "I'm a idiot, aren't I?" 

Koschei rolls his eyes at him. 

"Thought so." He kisses Koschei like it is the most obvious thing to do, which it is, and lets the fire consume him. He smiles into Koschei’s mouth, burning as he runs his hands over Koschei's skin. He grasps at Koschei's hair, turns and wedges his thigh between Koschei’s legs. He is more than satisfied with the way Koschei gasps and draws back. He does not let him go far, pulling him back in, moving his thigh higher and sliding his tongue inside Koschei's mouth. 

Theta's heart follows Koschei's hands, and he is glad they settle on his chest. He murmurs Koschei's name as they move apart. The air is cold on his lungs, but he barely feels it. Koschei smiles at him, the edges of his mouth twitching with uncertainty. 

"What is it?" He asks against Koschei's lips, unwillingly to move any farther apart. 

The next words out of Koschei’s mouth are so soft, Theta would have missed them had he not been so close. “Are you scared of me?” 

Koschei asks as he twists the chain tightly around Theta’s neck. It will break, not strong enough to hurt him, Theta calculates – but Koschei’s hands are strong enough to crush him. He knows what this is about. He unhooks the clasp of his emerald charm. He gathers it into his palm and crushes it within Koschei's hand.

“It’s all right,” Theta whispers, and for the first time he feels that he lost something some time ago, only so that he could retrieve it tonight. 

“It’s all right,” he repeats. He pulls Koschei’s shirt over of his head, and laughs softly as he guides Koschei over onto his back. "We're here."

~

Halfway up the mountain side, along the realm of the House of Lungbarrow, a lone fire is burning. A solitary figures stands at the entrance of a cave, staring into the flames that cast a boy-shaped shadow.

“So it begins,” he murmurs.

~

Deep in the heart of a dark forest, inside of a rickety old hut, an old woman swirls her fingers through the gutted stomach of a young striped piglet that refuses to remain bisected, no matter how much she cuts.

“So it ends,” she croaks.

~

They are wrong: There is neither a beginning nor an end. There is only them. 


End file.
